


High Hopes Low HP

by Goldstone_Wolf



Series: High Hopes Low (Blank) [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), High Hopes Low Rolls (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, THANKFULLY, Violence, Whips, basically Malark gets the crap beaten out of him three different tmes, broken ribs, don't worry it's not one of the babies, i think y'all would kill me if it wasn, shameless whump, stabbings, the ending is happy though, tws for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldstone_Wolf/pseuds/Goldstone_Wolf
Summary: Malark nearly dies on a mission gone wrong three times. Twice, he’s alone afterwards to pick up the pieces. The last time, he has friends—and someone who’s much more.
Series: High Hopes Low (Blank) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692196
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	High Hopes Low HP

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless Malark whump. TWs in tags and reiterated here: blood, broken ribs, stabbings, possible concussion, murder, death, near-death experiences, more TBA but please let me know if I missed something. Inspired by an animation abd-illustrates has of Malark. Also, RIP Hashaan and Nagar’s accents, they’re meant to be Russian (something I discovered scrolling through the High Hopes Asks yesterday) but I probably screwed up. If I did, please help me fix it.  
> Now, into the fray!

I~

Everything was fine until it wasn’t.

Malark wasn’t sure what had happened. It wasn’t a fault on his part. He had slipped into the noble’s bedroom and slashed the man’s throat. When he turned, however, he found the man standing there as the lights turned on.

He had killed an innocent servant.

No matter what anyone said, Malark was not heartless. Yes, he was an assassin. Yes, he was hired to kill people for a living. Yes, he was good at his job. But he killed who he was _hired_ to kill. Unnecessary death was deplorable, a sign of a novice. Even with soldiers who attacked him, he did his best to incapacitate rather than kill.

Glancing at the noble, he gripped the hilts of his daggers even tighter. “I heard you were coming, assassin. I never thought they’d send an amateur.” He glanced at the dying servant tied to the bed and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “What a mess, I’ll have to throw those sheets away. What a waste—they were linen from Bay Hollow.”

_You care more about your_ sheets _than a_ person? _Someone just_ died _for you—no wonder they want you dead._ Malark lunged and slashed upwards, but the noble grabbed his throat and slammed him into a wall. A sadistic light danced in the man’s eyes. As Malark’s daggers dropped to the floor, he caught one and squeezed Malark’s throat with his other hand.

Almost casually, he twirled the blade, allowing light to dance off the silvery shape. “You really _are_ an amateur. I could have so much fun with you, you know.” He jokingly traced around Malark’s eyes with the blade, then dipped to run a line from his throat to about his navel. “But you’re not a real threat. So for now, I’ll let you live so you can tell your buddies to send some _real_ fun.”

_He’s a sadist._ Malark grasped at the man’s wrist. The first thing he felt was a stinging, then burning, pain as his own blade was driven into his side where his ribs fell away. With a gasp, he scrabbled for his blade was he was dropped, the other twisted and ripped from his body.

The noble slid his finger along the bloodied knife in his hand. “You’ll get this back when your friends come to get it. Now, run. Get out of here.”

So Malark did.

Grabbing his other knife, the young assassin sprinted away, one hand clutching his blade and the other his side. As he ran, he could hear his boots on the cobblestones, albeit faintly, but the noise of the rest of the world was drowned out by the blood roaring in his ears and the fire burning in his lugs.

Ducking around a stone arch, he braced his back against it and gasped for air. His eyes were burning, and he glanced down at the wound. It was already beginning to get infected, every second he went without a doctor or even cleaning it raising the risk.

By some magic, he made it up into his inn room with no questions. Stripping his shirt, hood, and mask off, he went to the mirror and washbasin in the corner. Wincing, he peeled the fabric away and took in the injury, closing his eyes as he prodded at it. Not the best idea, but he couldn’t afford a doctor.

Thankfully, it wasn’t too deep, and it hadn’t hit anything important. He took a deep breath, head falling back. Whether it was relieved or not, even he wasn’t sure. He cleaned the wound, stitched and bandaged it, then slumped onto his bed. As he stared out the window, his mind wandered to what had happened. The noble shouldn’t have known they were coming. If the guild had known that he was so strong and skilled, they would have sent backup. Maybe they would have sent someone else—even Malark knew his limits and the man was beyond them. He had the wound to prove it.

Laying an arm over his eyes, he prayed that the guild wouldn’t yell at him _too_ much.

\/\/\/\/\/

II~

The second time he got caught was much, much worse.

Instead of attacking a shockingly powerful target, however, _Malark_ was the target himself. The enemy guild members had tracked him down while he was following his current prey. A wood elf, originating from the now-ruined city of Bay Hollow, named Paddock Whitlaw. He’d seen the elf a few times, travelling with a rather…unique assortment of individuals.

While they were in a town, Malark couldn’t remember the name, he had followed Whitlaw into the city square and then into an alley. The elf was rather handsome, but there was a heavy sum that made killing him almost palatable. From what he’d seen, Whitlaw was nice—maybe even mawkishly sweet. It was a shame to kill him. Money was money, however, and Malark wasn’t as skilled as he was because he hesitated to take lives. He’d had Whitlaw in his sights.

He was about to jump him when a white dragonborn with a heavy battleaxe sauntered up, a hill dwarf at his side. Frowning, he ducked into the shadows, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.

Then he felt hands slip around his throat and over his mouth.

“Hello, Dundragon. Sorry, but we’ll be taking you now.” Before he could do so much as reach for his knives, a nerve was pinched and he crumpled.

When he awoke, he was in the dirt and his blades were gone.

“Get up.” A boot collided with his ribs and he coughed. Before he could even get his bearings, he was kicked again—this time in the face. The second he was on the ground, more kicks and punches came from at least four attackers. His ribs were throbbing, his nose bleeding, and he dimly wondered if High Hopes might hear the yelps he was making. What a thought, ironic if not a sad one, truthfully. They could save him, only for him to slit their ethereally happy elf’s throat. Though, if they did…maybe he would be so injured he couldn’t continue the mission. Someone else could kill Whitlaw.

A morbid thought, of course, but some part of him knew he could have killed Whitlaw earlier. He had hesitated.

Fingers locked around his throat and he was raised up. Going limp, he let his eyes drift halfway closed, blinking away the blood running from a cut on his head. “Not so tough now, are you, Dundragon? Why don’t you just go back to your inn room and lick your wounds? Whitlaw has a purpose—and if you get in the way of that, we’ll be even worse than this time.”

With a solid _thud_ as muscle hit earth, Malark crumpled when he was dropped. His knives clanged down beside him. Head pounding and ears ringing, he waited for a long while before even attempting to pull them towards him, much less sit up. “Oh my gosh, Nagar. We have to help him.” A familiar voice yelped distantly, and he felt a clawed hand support his neck as he was helped to lean against a large rock.

“Leave…leave me alone.” He mumbled, batting weakly at the dragonborn. It was the white one from earlier, though concern had painted over his usually smiling features. “Go away.”

“I do not know, Paddy. Zis one seems to vant us to leave him alone.” The dragonborn turned to the elf Malark was meant to kill. Crouching, Paddock Whitlaw tried to touch Malark’s cheek where it bled. He jerked his head away in response.

“Don’t touch me. I said go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?” Probably due to blood loss, Malark nodded instead of not reacting. “At least let us take you there. The Blue Lily, right? I’ve seen you in the tavern.”

As he was hoisted up, Malark grunted. Nagar kept an arm around his waist, while Paddock grabbed Malark’s arm and slung it over his shoulders. They didn’t ask more questions as they limped into town. By that point, Malark was barely able to stumble up the stairs. He slammed the door shut in Whitlaw and Nagar’s faces, then slumped to the wooden floorboards where he stood.

Whitlaw must have raised his hand to knock. Nagar quietly whispered, “Paddy, I do not zink zere is anything more zat we can do for him. Let us go, the others vill be vorried.”

Their footsteps faded, and Malark treated his wounds before wandering over to the bed and collapsing facedown on the pillow.

The next morning, he asked about the group as he left. “Oy, they left early. Before dawn.” Looking the money over, the innkeep sniffed loudly and added, “Thirty more for blood on the sheets and causing a ruckus.”

With a scoff, Malark tossed the money on the counter and limped outside.

\/\/\/\/\/

+I~

He wasn’t sure what hurt worse—his ribs or his back.

They had been ambushed on what should have been their day off. Four dragonborns had attacked Hashaan and Nagar, a fifth splitting off to grab Malark by the throat and bash him into a wall. His head had smacked against a stone support with a painful _crack_ , and he’d been left with ringing ears and black spots dancing in his vision. When he was dropped, a Warhammer smashed into his ribs and he heard the series of _crack, crack, snap_ before the fiery pain lashed out from his injuries. Then he was flying until he hit the stone fountain, knives clattering away. Vision blurry, he had the sensation of someone sitting on his hip and stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and stomach. The sensation of his own knives sliding painfully in and out of his body was only intensified as they twisted the blade in a full circle with each stab before ripping it out. Weakly, he shoved them off.

Then came the whip.

It looked like a normal cat o’ nine tails, but the colour seemed…off. All their weapons had a dizzying iridescence to them, and he squinted at his attacker—a half-elf—before the whip found its target. His back.

He counted forty-five lashes—five from each tail—before he blacked out.

Things came back slowly. Fingers were carded through his hair, tousling the ends and rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. Voices faded in and out. He was dimly aware of being by the fountain, lying on his side in the dirt. “…ook, please…help…you do anything?” _Paddy._ That was Paddy’s voice—the elf had Malark’s head in his lap, the pads of his fingers brushing Malark’s cheek. His chest and stomach felt a little better, although his back was still ablaze and so were his ribs.

Rook Lunera’s voice popped in. “…weapons…the wounds to his chest…own blades, that’s easy…never seen this…”

Malark must have blacked out again, because he woke up in bed.

He was lying on Paddy, head on the elf’s chest and their stomachs pressed together. There was something on his face, but he wasn’t sure what. His hair was wet—he vaguely remembered briefly waking in a warm bath as someone cleaned his wounds. Speaking of the injuries, they were bandaged now, and the pain was subdued. Raising his head, he glanced around. The others (including Paddy) were bandaged and bruised as well, in various stages of sleep. Nagar was sitting in a chair, chin on his chest. Gwing was leaning against the wall by the window, staring outside while Rook dozed on the couch behind her. Terra, Mina, Ava, and Bro were all slumped on the ground in a pile of limbs and even weapons and Ava’s bottles. Ryce and Hashaan were speaking quietly in another corner, although the bard was clearly drifting off even as they spoke. Paddy himself was asleep, snoring ever so softly.

Closing his eyes, Malark let his head rest over Paddy’s heart and drifted off.

**Author's Note:**

> And it’s done! Let’s be honest, Malark probably could have managed to at least knock Nagar and Gimgar out with the factor of surprise and then take Paddy out if he wanted to. Or he could have taken him out the second Paddy was in the alley. He one hundred percent hesitated. Anyways, tell me what you think in the comments—I’m not a monster, I won’t bite. Now, back into the fray!


End file.
